


Toto Corpore

by Todesengel



Category: Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Amputation, Cybernetic Implants, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-25
Updated: 2005-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not pity</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toto Corpore

Keith made a strange, strangled sound, and Hunk turned just in time to see him fall, left arm flailing wildly. Blue lightening arched between his fingertips, danced along his arm, ground itself into the metal floor of the corridor. Hunk watched the light and in his shock he thought it was rather pretty, like a well done laser light show. But the way Keith's body formed an almost perfect arch, the way blood ran from the corners of his mouth, the sound his head made as it slammed into the floor -- that wasn't pretty at all and it snapped Hunk back into reality.

Hunk hit the emergency medical alert button on his suit as he ran back down the corridor, shouting, "Lance! Help me!' over his shoulder. He dropped to his knees besides Keith, tore Keith's sleeve off in one violent sweep, tried to remember what to do next.

"Don't restrain. Don't put anything in the mouth. Protect the head. Remove the limb," he muttered. "Right. I can do this." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lance drop down beside him, breathing heavily, face pale.

"What's happening?"

"Overload. I need you to protect his head -- use your jacket. _Don't_ touch him."

"What are you--"

"Just do it, Lance." Hunk shifted until his feet were under him, made sure he was grounded, thanked the foresight that had led him to insulate the gloves of his flight suit. He stared at Keith's arm, still twitching and flailing, the skin smooth and free of scars. Shit. Goddamn holo-projectors. Where did the machine start? Wrist? Elbow? Shoulder?

A flash caught his eye -- nothing big, just a flicker of _difference_. He waited one, two, three shallow breaths, felt his hands grow slick with sweat. Saw it again, on Keith's shoulder. He reached, grabbed, probed, found the spot that gave, and pushed. He didn't hear the click but the arm felt heavier and when he twisted, pulled, dropped it, it came easily away from Keith's body.

"Jesus _fuck_!" he heard Lance shout, heard the clatter of boots on metal as Lance scrambled away, but he didn't pay too much attention to the noise. He was too busy rolling Keith onto his side, forcing Keith's mouth to open. Fresh blood oozed out, flowing from the deep bite marks on his tongue, and Keith's breath was harsh, rasping. But he was breathing, he wasn't choking, and Hunk sat back on his heels, grateful. He breathed, slowly, roughly, in a counterpoint to Keith and became aware, staggeringly so, of the loud _whoop whoop_ of the medical emergency alarms blaring through the corridor, of the flashing red lights, of Lance sitting with his head between his knees, clasped hands pressing down on his neck.

"Fuck," Lance muttered, over and over, like a prayer. "Jesus. Fuck."

Hunk blinked, tried to figure out what had set Lance off. He looked at Keith's arm and, yes, the point where the implant joined Keith's body was ugly, the skin puckered in places, raised in others, the scars ranging from shiny white to deep purple. But Hunk had seen worse, knew that Lance had seen worse too.

The implant itself was impressively modern -- compact and sleek and self-contained, rather like the joints of the Lions; an inverted bowl of shining steel, patterned with copper wires and shallow grooves and tiny, rounded contacts. It was modern and expensive and Hunk was wondering how the fuck it had failed so badly, why it'd overloaded so badly, when he saw that things weren't as sleek and clean as they first seemed. He bent closer, stared at the corroded ports, the awkwardly soldered washers that were supposed to do the work of proper contacts, at the general air of over-use -- of being worked too hard and not serviced and never cleaned -- and he stopped wondering why it _failed_ and started wondering why Keith let it get so bad, why he didn't say anything. If the port was this bad, then what must the jack look like?

Hunk reached for Keith's arm and his hand closed on empty air. He looked down at the empty ground, confused, and felt the first stirrings of panic. He turned, looking over at Lance and --

Lance had moved. He was standing under one of the hallway's lights, holding Keith's arm up and staring at the jack with a strange expression -- fear and sorrow and something that wasn't wonder, wasn't shame. Something that looked an awful lot like pity and an awful like resolve. Hunk cleared his throat and Lance turned, dropping his hands down to his side as if he'd just been caught topping off the liquor bottles with colored water. He smiled, a shaky imitation of himself, and held the arm out to Hunk.

"Guess Keith really is a machine," he said, and it sounded as if he was trying to joke, as if he was trying to pretend that everything was normal and this was just one more thing he could tease Keith about. But Hunk could hear the strain below Lance's words, hear the pity, and he understood -- understood so painfully, so clearly -- why Keith had let the maintenance slide.

He took the arm from Lance, gently, and put it beside Keith's still form. Lance looked at him with a confusion that rapidly turned into shock as Hunk turned the momentum from rising into a vicious wind up for a punch that sent Lance staggering off to the side, clutching at an eye that was already beginning to swell. Behind him, Hunk could hear the clatter of the arriving medics, feel their shock at his actions.

"Hunk?" Lance's voice was small and almost lost beneath the wail of the alarms. Hunk turned away, turned to face the pair of medics.

"Take him to the doc," Hunk said. The pair nodded, loaded Keith onto the stretcher with silent efficiency. If the sight of his detached arm bothered them, they didn't let it show. One of them spoke into his radio, and the silence when the alarms cut out and the red lights stopped flashing was physically startling.

"Hunk?" Lance said again, sounding lost and confused and a little angry.

Hunk turned back to Lance. He opened his mouth, the words to explain why he punched Lance, why he was now glaring at Lance as if Lance was the one responsible for Keith's condition -- which he was in an indirect fashion -- dancing on the tip of his tongue. But he knew he could never get Lance to see how dangerous his pity was, so he didn't try. He just shut his mouth and walked away.

*

Keith climbed out of the comforting nothingness slowly. He opened his eyes and stared at the off-white expanse before him, not sure of where he was, what he was seeing, until he blinked -- eyes closing not concurrently but in halting succession -- and the view _shifted_ , became clear.

Ah, he thought. A ceiling.

And that should have been a clue, a sign as to where he was, but it wasn't. His brain wasn't working right. He felt muzzy, slow, like he had to think through gauze.

His arm hurt, which wasn't strange until he realized that it was his _right_ arm, and the pain was focused on a single spot on his hand. Which was odd, but Keith couldn't really figure out what was so peculiar about the situation. All he knew was that spot _hurt_. It burned and was cold and there was a truly disturbing sensation of movement underneath his skin. He needed to stop that pain, to make the feeling of coldness creeping, flowing, just beneath his skin go away -- and the distant part of his mind, the part that was wrapped up and hushed by the gauze, told him that it was a needle that was causing the pain, and that it was the flow of drugs into his body that was causing the coldness and that there was something wrong, something important that he needed to remember. But all that was secondary to getting the pain to stop, so he reached out with his left hand --

And nothing happened.

Panic -- panic at the sudden ache of nothingness below his left shoulder, panic at the not-action -- made his skin tingle, but the panic was as soft and distant and muffled as the cold, clear, aware part of his mind. And after the first fluttering wash that passed over him, the absence -- of there not being _something_ there -- beyond his left shoulder became familiar. He turned his head, looked at the empty space beside him, at the empty, deflated sleeve of his gown.

Well. That explained things.

He could adjust to this. He'd done it once before, back when the pain was new, before he'd been given his first prosthesis. He didn't need his left arm for the basics, like getting himself upright. And if he got himself upright, then he'd be able to take that thing in his hand out with his teeth.

Keith pulled his right arm behind him -- or he tried to, at any rate. He was only able to move it a few inches before he felt resistance -- a strap, so soft and light that he hadn't been able to feel its touch against his skin. Soft and light and damnably firm, keeping his hand still no matter how hard he tugged.

Well, there was more than one way to sit up, and so he tensed his abs, lifted his torso -- and stopped again, held in place by another strap, this one crossing his chest.

What the hell?

Anger was beginning to burn away the gauze, to warm the spots that the drugs had chilled. He didn't bother to test his legs -- now that he knew what the restraints felt like, he could tell that they were there, trapping him, and that fact fueled his anger. He didn't know whose idea it was to restrain him, but when he found out, he was going to deal some serious pain.

First things first. Release the restraints.

Keith twisted his right wrist around, bent his hand almost back on itself. He could feel the restraint with the tips of his fingers and he knew -- he _knew_ \-- that if he just pulled hard enough he'd be able to work his way free. If he just got the cloth up closer, just got enough of a purchase, twisted around just enough, he'd be able to undo whatever mechanism kept the strap closed gently around his arm.

His wrist twinged. Keith closed his eyes, felt the tip of his tongue curl up over his top lip. He took slow, steady breaths, kept working the cloth slowly higher.

"Need some help?"

Hunk's voice was startlingly loud, and Keith twitched, made the bed shake with the strength of his surprise. He craned his head up, tucked his chin into his chest, twisted about until he could see Hunk, who was sitting so calmly by the bed. He was still, unnaturally so, and Keith could see the anger that smoldered within him, just barely restrained. Anger that was directed at him.

Well, the anger was only natural, Keith supposed. After all, he had lied to them, he'd betrayed the trust that he'd been given.

Keith let his head fall back, relieved the strain on his neck. He wondered, briefly, if the sight of his stump -- of his skin, so naked and ugly and gnarled -- had disgusted Hunk. If, perhaps, the reason Hunk was angry, the reason Hunk was baiting him so by offering him this false help, was fueled by the repulsion Hunk felt. If the unnatural sight of the melding of his flesh with cold, uncaring machinery shocked Hunk's soul the way it had shocked his father's; the way it had shocked the one lover he'd taken after the operation.

"I can do it," he said aloud. And he went back to trying to free himself.

"You're going to tear your IV out if you keep that up." Hunk's voice was just as calm, as still as his body; and Keith could hear the barely restrained anger that lurked just below that calm.

"I can do it."

"Damn it Keith!" The bed vibrated with the impact of Hunk's fist and Keith winced. "Would you stop being so goddamn stubborn and let somebody _help_ you for once? I talked to Gorma. I know that you've been having trouble breathing for the past two weeks; I know that your arm has been shocking you. Why didn't you _say_ something? You could have died, don't you get that?"

"And who was I supposed to tell? Lance? Pidge? You?" Keith laughed and stared at the ceiling. "Why? So I could hear more jokes about how I'm like a robot? So I could let you and Pidge satisfy your curiosity about biomechanics? So I could be doubted? So the three of you could have secret meetings about how to keep me from being overburdened, how to take the load off of me because I'm 'disabled', how to convince yourselves that pity is the same as compassion?" Keith snorted and closed his eyes. "I spent ten years putting up with that shit, Hunk. I spent ten long, miserable, hard years proving over and over that just because I was unlucky enough to have my arm blown off during my first mission out of the Academy it doesn't mean that I'm unfit for command. I spent ten years taking every bullshit mission the Brass deigned to give me with a smile and a salute and a 'yes sir'. Ten years fighting to prove that I belonged in the GG, and I'll be fucked if I start that fight again, because that's _not_ why I joined up, that's not the fight I'm here for. Besides. This is _my_ problem. It doesn't concern you."

Hunk was silent for a long time; long enough for Keith to open his eyes and go back to worrying at the strap around his wrist.

"It's not," Hunk said at last, speaking softly and calmly once more.

"What?"

"It's not just your problem." Hunk shifted in his chair, making it creak, and Keith tilted his neck awkwardly up again until he could see Hunk's face. He looked a little sad, now, and serious and the anger was still there but it was deeper. "Look. Maybe this isn't the command you could've had, or the command you wanted; and maybe we're not the team you wanted, maybe this is just another bullshit mission to you but. But this is the team you got and it's the command you got and it's the mission you got. And you're our Captain. So if you can't perform -- if you drop dead while piloting Black because your arm overloads again and there's nobody around to detach it -- if you don't trust us. It affects us. It's our problem too."

Keith sighed, let his head drop back.

Shit.

"Look," he said, and he tugged on his restraints a little. "If you're going to chastise me, can you at least let me sit up?"

Hunk's chair creaked again and Keith moved his limbs as far from the edges of the bed as he could, tried to provide as clear an access as he could.

Instead, the bed began to move, bringing his torso upright but leaving the restraints in place. Keith looked at Hunk, looked down at his restraints. "This wasn't exactly what I meant."

"I know you." Hunk put the remote down and leaned forward in his chair. "If I untie you, you're just going to run. You're going to push me away and the next time this happens, you're not going to tell me again. And then you'll be dead."

"Actually, I'd probably walk," Keith said. "I don't think my balance is good enough for a run."

He smiled, but Hunk didn't and Keith let his smile drop after a few uncomfortable seconds. Keith fiddled with the sheets and looked at his legs. He realized, idly, that he wasn't wearing any underwear and wished that the hospital gown wasn't quite so flimsy. He felt cold.

"I'm not running, Hunk," he said softly. "I'm not trying to keep secrets. I just. I'm so tired of being treated like I'm different, like I can't do the same things as everybody else. I'm tired of pity. It." Keith tried to gesture but the wrist restraint stopped him and he had to just smile instead. "It hurts."

"I know." Hunk sat back in his chair. "But. I don't pity you. And I'm certified to perform routine maintenance on biomechanical parts. So. You should have told me. It would have saved everybody a lot of trouble."

"Where--" Keith looked for the telltale signs, for the way that one side was favored over the other, for the way the artificial limb moved too smoothly, too heavily, without the natural roughness of fallible flesh and bone. But he couldn't see any of those things, so he changed the question. "Why?"

"I...had a brother. Older. Saylen." Hunk looked down at his hands. "He lost a leg in a car crash, from the knee down. His prosthesis wasn't as advanced as yours but. It needed maintenance. So I got certified. I learned all about overloading and how to be sensitive to mood swings and depression and really pointless, worthless shit. And I thought." Hunk closed his hands. Opened them. "I thought I was helping Sal. I thought. Well..." Hunk looked up. "He didn't tell me about his prosthesis breaking down. And. I couldn't do anything then."

"Oh." Keith bent his wrist again, fiddled with the edge of the strap. He stared at Hunk's hands, then looked away. "Well. Thank you. For saving my life." He looked back up at Hunk, and he tightened his fist, clenched the sheets. "But. I'm not a replacement for your brother. I'm not here for your redemption."

"I know." Hunk stood up, walked around the bed until he stood by Keith's side. "You aren't my brother." He took the safety bar down, leaned in, cupped Keith's face gently in his hands. "And this isn't pity."

The kiss was sweet and Keith leaned into it. He felt Hunk's hands -- so warm, so clumsy with human error -- through the thin cloth of the gown, felt the sudden chill of cold air as the ties were undone and the front of the gown fell away, catching against the chest restraint. He tugged on the wrist restraint once more, tried to get his hand up, to run it through Hunk's hair, feel the stubble of Hunk's cheek. The metal railing rattled with his frustration.

Hunk broke the kiss and Keith strained for more.

"Hunk." He tugged at the restraints.

"It's okay."

And that wasn't the response that Keith wanted, wasn't what he wanted to hear at all, but then Hunk touched the twisted flesh of his shoulder -- caressed the puckered scars, the raised knobs -- and Keith shuddered, lost in the sensation of human warmth. It had been so long since someone had touched him there, so long since he'd felt contact that wasn't deadened by the machine. He'd forgotten how sensitive his skin could be. How just a light touch could make him tremble, cause his blood to pound, cause him to _want_.

The rub of the cotton gown against his erection was maddening.

His eyes slid closed and he let the sensations wash over him, mewled in pleasure at the way Hunk rubbed here, pressed there, relieved the low ache of old wounds. Enjoyed the way his need grew slowly, steadily, building up with a pleasant pressure.

Hunk took his hands away, moved away, and Keith opened his eyes, a little. Made a small noise of inquiry. Tried to find Hunk, to crane his neck, to see what Hunk was doing. The soft sigh of air escaping, the sound of liquid being squeezed from a tube reassured him, and he pulled against the restraints again. Now. Now he'd be let loose, be allowed to participate, to show Hunk that not having a left arm in no way diminished his abilities.

"Relax," Hunk said as he came back, and Keith closed his eyes, turned his head up, slightly.

Hunk put his hand on Keith's shoulder, pressed down a little. Keith opened his eyes again, frowned, because this wasn't like previous touches, this was more insistent. He opened his mouth.

Hunk touched the inside of his socket. Rubbed something cool, something soft, along the copper wires, over the tiny nodes.

"Ah!" Sharp. High. His cry sounded like pain, and in a sense that's what it was. Pleasure so great that it was edged in pain. His eyes rolled up and.

It shouldn't have felt like this. He was only supposed to be able to feel when the machine was strained, to feel the pain of moving his shoulder back too far, down too far. He wasn't wired for pleasure there and so it shouldn't have felt like each node was tapped directly into the pleasure center of his brain, that each touch could send a blazing fire that burst like fireworks behind his eyes. He shouldn't have trembled so, shouldn't have arched up again and again, fighting the restraints, bucking and writhing and crying from the pleasure and coming so hard that he soaked the lap of his gown with his seed.

"Hunk," he sobbed, still writhing under the touch. "Hunk, please."

"Does it hurt?" Hunk's voice was still so calm, so sure, and Keith wondered, in a distant part of his mind, if this was something that Hunk had been taught in his certification classes, some quirk about having a prosthesis that nobody had thought to tell him.

Keith shook his head, bit down into his lip to give himself something to focus on, something other than the way Hunk's hands felt as they cleaned the metal.

"Ah. Stop that." Hunk took one hand away, used it to caresses Keith's cheek, turn his head. He leaned in, captured the abused lip with his mouth, and Keith let him.

"Hunk, I need--" He looked down at his lap, at the mess. At his still aching, needy cock. He pulled his wrist again, looked up at Hunk. "It's uncomfortable. I need to--"

"You need to let other people do things for you," Hunk said. The bed creaked under his weight.

He pulled Keith's gown gently away, exposed him to the cool air of the sickbay. Keith looked down at the mess that coated his stomach, and he tried, once more, to get himself free. "Hunk, let me wipe--"

The swipe of Hunk's tongue across his stomach halted his words and Keith shuddered, felt his muscles twitch in the path Hunk left. He looked down at Hunk's head, at the way it moved while Hunk licked away his spunk, nuzzled his cock. Hunk looked back up at him, briefly, and there was nothing like pity in his eyes -- only desire, only lust, only love.

"You don't have to do everything to prove that you can," Hunk said. "You can let go, sometimes. You can rely on other people. You can be just like everybody else."

Keith shuddered and he stopped fighting. He let his head fall back, let the feeling of Hunk's tongue on his skin become the center of his world. He let Hunk take control, let Hunk set the pace, even as he begged for more with his body, tried to prolong the contact, thrust up into Hunk's mouth, clenched tightly around Hunk's blunt, probing fingers. He didn't try to escape when Hunk undid the leg restraints, pushed his knees up and thrust into him; he just let go of that tight knot of pain and need and anger and frustration that he hadn't known he still carried.

When he came again, with Hunk buried deep inside of him, he felt himself crying.

Hunk wiped away his tears with his thumbs and kissed him, fiercely, harshly, in a way that was different from the slow, gentle, passionate kisses of before.

"This isn't pity," he growled, and his words vibrated from his chest to Keith's. The anger was back in his eyes, and Keith tasted it in Hunk's kiss. "It isn't."

"I know." Keith blinked his eyes until the tears stopped. He leaned his head forward until his forehead touched Hunk's, took a deep, slow, easy breath. "I know."


End file.
